


Step Into My Parlor

by DaisyIfYouHave



Series: Overwatch 2.0 [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amelie is a confused gay spider, F/F, the anime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 22:26:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11496000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyIfYouHave/pseuds/DaisyIfYouHave
Summary: "You either finish the job or the job finishes you," Widowmaker had thought once, though she could not remember if that was actually a parable or if she had simply heard it in an old noir movie as a child





	Step Into My Parlor

The riding drum of the battlefield was never a thing Amelie understood. Her world was calm. Collected. Orderly. Above all, patient. So much of her life was simply waiting for on opportunity, the gift of time slipping through an hourglass until the perfect moment hit, and, like God himself, she could break death in one quiet moment.

It had been like that, at first. A flash of blue blinked her scope, and her finger did not wait to consult her brain, her sniper’s skill so refined that death was no longer a matter of thought, but of instinct. The world slowed, her eyes linking into Tracer’s, noticing the moment when they grew wide with realization, her mouth dropping open with a horrified surprise.

A small red dot on her right breast. Not a perfect shot, but good enough. She would accomplish what everyone else had failed, Tracer so far out from her team, so alone in the dark. The dot grew as Tracer stumbled into the alleyway, yanking off her goggles.

Widowmaker broke down her rifle quickly and strapped it to her back, not even really knowing why she was moving toward Tracer. It was essentially a confirmed kill. She had moments left.

And yet, she swung down into the dark alleyway, where Tracer knelt, coughing blood onto the cobblestones, giving a desperate gasp every so often.

She looked up to the sound of Widowmaker’s heels clacking on the ground. Her red-flecked lips moved to form the letters of Widowmaker’s name, the old one that time had forgotten, the one she must know from her file, a name human and wrong, but there was no breath behind it, no sound except the terrible rattle of her lungs.

Widowmaker knelt in front of her, a strange sickly feeling coming over her, and Tracer leaned against her shoulder. She was so warm. Like a tiny sun.

She put her arms around Tracer as she began to falter, holding her up until, she realized, she was cradling her in her arms.

“Tracer.” She could not break her gaze, drawn in by those terrible, deep brown eyes.

Tracer reached up and put a bloodied hand on her cheek, and softly, barely, mouthed ‘okay.’

“Lena.” It had broken from her mouth, fresh with a sorrow that disgusted her.

Tracer moved to take another shuddering breath, but nothing came, her eyes still locked with Widowmaker’s as they glazed over and the light in them died, as she grew heavy in Widowmaker’s arms.

The alley was cold again.

Widowmaker held her to her chest and shut her eyes tight, her teeth bared in anger at her own regret, at her own pain, at a life that had required her to take so much from herself, at Reaper’s order, at her willingness to take it, at her feeling, even now, that maybe it had been right, at the fact that right had always been her burden.

She still smelled of sunshine.

There was a furious roar behind her, and the last thing she saw was a giant black hand reaching toward her.

__

“This is stupid.” Tracer pouted as she sat on the couch.

“YOU are stupid.” Pharah glowered as she adjusted her gauntlet

Tracer stood up, fists balled. “Would you care to–”

“Fareeha. Lena. Enough.” Mercy touched their shoulders, the softness of her voice covering the room like a blanket. She looked over at Tracer. “She is only trying to protect you. You are still not well.”

“Says who?!”

Winston shook his head. “Pharah, I’m not sure I think you’re–I mean anyone, is capable of winning this–”

Pharah’s mouth hung open, agog with Tracer’s complete lack of reality in moments such as these, and her voice deepened in a growl. “You almost bled to death on a metal van floor less than a month ago. I realize your attention to detail is poor, but I would think–”

Tracer tossed her head and threw a hand in the air. “Not bleedin’ to death now!” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I can ‘elp. And besides, who died and made you dictator of this group? Because it surely wasn’t me.”

“Only because Mercy is exceptionally talented, is that true.” Pharah straightened up. “But you are right, Tracer.”

“Course I am.”

“This is a group founded on the principles of teamwork, and, where you and I disagree, the team should make a final decision.” She looked around the room, everyone in their battle gear save for Tracer, who was still wearing her plaid pajama pants, an oversize grey cardigan pulled over her West Ham shirt. “Everyone who believes that Overwatch Agent Lena Oxton, callsign Tracer,”

Lena sighed. “Can we skip your dramatics, this one time?” She held up a finger for emphasis.

Pharah extended a hand. “Who, only three weeks ago,”

“Three and a half.”

“Was nearly killed in the line of duty,”

“As if we ‘aven’t all done that!”

“And suffered from severe blood loss, requiring,” she turned around to look at Winston and Dva. “A minimum of six weeks before any strenuous physical activity, and is almost certain to weaken and collapse on the battlefield, causing either a dangerous rescue, or her death,”

“Listening to you’s the closest I’ve felt to death in me whole bloody life.”

“Should stay home from the mission, as the highly decorated and world renowned,” she winked at Mercy, “And beautiful, Dr. Angela Ziegler, recommends, raise your hand.” She raised her hand and smirked at Tracer.

“Are you through?” Tracer looked at Pharah incredulously, and then out at the group. “Counterpoint: I’m tip top, I’m a necessary part of the team, and I’ve a right to make me own decisions.”

D.va’s hand popped up first, and she popped her gum. “I mean, I don’t care, but you’re being dumb.”

Mercy raised her hand, and looked at Tracer apologetically. “You aren’t strong enough yet, Lena, I’m sorry.”

Winston slowly raised his hand.

“Win! You must be bloody joking!”

“It’s not a serious mission, and you’re tired, Lena. I can tell by looking at you.” He nodded frmly but looked at the ground. “And don’t tell me I don’t know, We both know I have no difficulty tellin–”

“Ugh!” Tracer flopped down dramatically on the couch.

“Take it easy, Mighty Mouse.” 76 reached down and patted her shoulder.

“Oh, get stuffed, Jack.” She picked up her cell phone. “Ordering an entire pizza, on Overwatch, and I won’t share one bite with the lot of you.” She glared at Mercy. “It’ll be all pork, as well, so don’t ‘old out ‘ope for leftovers.”

“Tracer” Pharah grinned.

“Yeah?”

Pharah winked at her. “Don’t wait up.”

“I ‘ate you.”

__

Widowmaker could not put the dream of last night from her mind, even as she quietly stirred her coffee, the light froth of cream making a web on the surface. These dreams had haunted her since the night on King’s Row, when she had first come face to face with Tracer, when she had beaten her, and yet Tracer had still claimed some small dominion in her head.

It was an unacceptable loss.

Much could be said of Widowmaker, and generally one of the first compliments given her was that she did not involve herself with her targets, emotionally or otherwise. Gabriel often praised her ruthless cold, different from Sombra’s smartass self-involvement. She prided herself on it. She could shake your hand one day and put a bullet through your head the next.

Why then, these dreams?

Tracer was nothing special–she had killed Overwatch agents she had known better before, with less thought. Even Gabriel had commented how odd it was for her to miss a target, particularly one that Talon found so very annoying. There was something in her eyes, maybe, something that looked past who Widowmaker was on paper.

She had called her Amelie. She had read Widowmaker’s file, too.

In a sense, she reasoned, it did not matter why she felt this way, it was a cancer she had to cut out, origin unknown and unimportant. But you can’t shoot her Amelie, the voice inside of her laughed, or you’d have done it as she lay in that hospital bed. No, no, another voice chimed in, Widow, you can certainly do it. You want her to see the face of the woman who kills her. That is all.

That must be it. There must need to be a sense of honor in it. That this had never been an issue before, and that she had happily shot many a soldier in the back from on high, did not enter her mind at the present moment, what was important was that she had discovered the whole of it, and Tracer would die.

She went to tell Gabriel her plan.

__

A strange feeling came over Tracer, and she didn’t think it was the breadsticks. Something palpable in the room, the she couldn’t quite place. Someone, something, was here with her. That, or her nightly dose of pain medication, which was not supposed to be mixed with alcohol, she thought, grimacing a little as she looked down at the brown bottle in front of her, freshly drained. She supposed it could be making her feel odd.

But she only had one. And she’d never been prone to a hallucination like this before.

The line between paranoid and cautious is always a difficult one for a soldier to walk, and Tracer tossed about in her mind the many possibilities in her head. She couldn’t well get into her battle gear–the idea of her team walking in and seeing her sitting on the couch in it, like a child who wasn’t picked to play, was too much for her to handle. But sitting here in her pjs, trusting on the ability of the room to hold her, was too nerve wracking, even knowing that Mercy would tell her it was very likely her mix of business and pleasure that was causing her nervousness.

Her casual accelerator, flatter and more comfortable, her only choice back before Winston had rigged up any of the rooms and still her general daily accelerator, sat on the hub in the corner, and Tracer clipped it on her body, slipping off her cardigan and putting the accelerator over her shirt.

“I’ve gone completely mad.” She slipped her cardigan back on, but sighed and forgave herself. “Feels better, though.”

It sometimes simply made her feel more secure to wear it, and, rather than tell herself she was being silly, she just gave in, and let herself feel safer. It wasn’t even uncomfortable to her, after all these years and so long wearing it even at home. For years, Win barely managed to keep her bedroom a free space.

She sat back down on the couch, temporarily relaxing. It was nothing. Just some old anxiety, crawling inside of her, and she was going to turn into a nightmare like Jack, sweeping the perimeter, if she didn’t control it.

She picked up a glob of fallen cheese, wrapped around a bit of sausage, and tipped her head back, mouth open in delight, as Sue and Giles debated the merits of mock everything.

When she was small, Tracer had once lost her airplane in a tree. It was her favorite airplane, and she had no intention of losing it to anything so foolish as a piece of greenery, and so she had climbed what must have been 20 feet into the air, balancing on the branch as she teetered out. Her father had come out the back door, his face horrified, and she heard his same voice in her head now.

_LENA!!_

It jarred her entire body, sending a searing pain through her middle, but she whipped her head around to see the barrel of a gun staring at her.

“Boujour, cherie.” Widowmaker gave her deep laugh.

Tracer’s eyes flicked up to her. “‘Fraid I don’t speak much frog, love.”

Widowmaker recoiled in annoyance for a moment, and Tracer took it, leaping off the couch, not entirely sure where she was going to go but imagining that anywhere was better than the end of Widowmaker’s gun. She whirled around and sprung off the coffee table, as Widowmaker pursued her. Widowmaker leapt over the couch after her, and Tracer upended the coffee table with a kick, sending pizza and breadsticks flying at Widowmaker and all over the couch. Tracer gave a small, solitary blink toward the back of the room, knocking over a picture of Pharah and Mercy at their wedding as she did so.

The trouble, Tracer considered as she ran around the back of the couch, is that whenever you miniaturize technology, something has to give. Winston’s early work had been to try and make Tracer’s life more normal and comfortable–that she could harness her abilities and blink at all was a happy accidental discovery, and the casual accelerator had never been designed for fights like this.

Which was wonderful most of the time, as she didn’t plan on being murdered on a daily basis, agent or no, but on this particular occasion, she wished she could blink a little more that the one second allotted to her.

She thought quickly, her mind reeling. There had to be something here. She couldn’t die like this. And then she saw it. One of Dva’s guns, left carelessly to the side of the armchair where she’d been cleaning it. Pharah would have her ass for that, normally, but Tracer figured she would make an exception for the fact that it had saved Tracer’s life. Maybe.

She summoned up as much strength as she could and blinked her tiny blink toward it, grabbing the gun narrowly. She turned around and pointed it straight at Widowmaker, whose gun was trained on her, and they stood still for a moment, staring.

And then it came over her like a wave, sheer pain and exhaustion, and the gun suddenly became very heavy in her hand, and her body suddenly became very heavy on her frame, and her arm shook with the sheer effort of keeping it trained on Widowmaker, who stood stock-still, a smile playing with delight across her face.

Tracer’s eyelids fluttered for a moment, and she fell to her knees, breathing hard as she stared down at the floor. Widowmaker placed her food on the gun and sent it skittering across the room uselessly, walking to Tracer.

Tracer  took a few deep breaths. “See as you don’t tell Pharah about this, she’d crow it over me grave for the rest of ‘er bloody life.” She gritted her teeth in frustration. “You’d never ‘ave bested me if I could blink properly.”

Widowmaker chuckled. “But you can’t”  She cocked her gun and pointed it at Tracer’s forehead. Only a moment now. “Do you have any last requests?”

Tracer looked down the barrel of the gun, more thoughtful than worried. She looked up at Widowmaker. “Can I ‘ave two?”

Widowmaker was taken aback for a moment, although she supposed she should have considered Tracer’s general bravado.

“And what would those be, cherie?”

She narrowed her eyes at Widowmaker. “Promise me I can ‘ave ‘em.”

“I suppose, unless you mean to prevent your own death, which, cherie, comes for you as it does for us all, than I can–”

“Now as you mention it, I’d like a beer.”

“A beer?”

She shrugged. “You asked, not me. No tricks or nothing, you’ve got me bang to rights.”

“If that is what you want…”

She kept her gun pointed at Tracer as they walked toward the kitchen, Tracer moving slowly and haltingly, her hand against the wall as they came into the kitchen. “Even considering I can’t blink, you’d never ‘ave got me if I ‘adn’t been shot naught but a few weeks ago.”

“But you were. And now…you will die, like your mother and father before you.”

“You gonna give me cancer and an ‘eart attack, love? Brilliant trick, you have. “ She giggled, and then held her stomach, “Ow bad is the intelligence back at Talon, I wonder?”

WIdowmaker suddenly realized she had simply registered that Tracer’s parents were dead, and they had both been RAF, and she had simply assumed. It flustered her, to see Tracer giggle at her misstep.

“Did you know Americans drink their beer near-frozen?” Tracer slowly lowered her body and took a bottle out of a tiny wine fridge at the edge of the kitchen. “Didn’t learn that meself until I joined up with Overwatch. Disgusting, it is.” She stood up and popped off the cap, taking a long drink. “Want one?”

“No, I do not.”

Tracer gave a half-hearted shrug and shuffled slowly back toward the living room. “I won’t drag it out, but I do intend to enjoy it, seeing as it’s me last.” She sat down slowly on the couch, sinking into the cushions, closing her eyes in a deep sigh and just resting there a moment.

Widowmaker watched her, careful not to lower the gun. She took a drink or two of her beer, but mostly she just sat there, like a child about to drift off to sleep, her face unmarred with worry. Widowmaker could not decide if it was alluring or offputting, but it was certainly unsatisfying.

Tracer opened her eyes. “And now, for me second request.”

Widowmaker smiled as she raised the gun again. “Do you intend to beg for mercy?”

Tracer looked at her, a mix of confusion and offense in her face. “Not ‘ardly.” Widowmaker looked at her askance, and she continued, pointing her bottle at Widowmaker. “If I so much as thought of begging the bloody French for anything, me Dad would some'ow raise from the dead just to ‘ave another 'eart attack,he would. ” she leaned toward Widowmaker, “Because, love, that is ‘ow he died, and you may want to change the records back at base. No,” she shook her head. “I’ll finish me ale and die like a proper Englishwoman. But,” she took a sip, “I need you to take me out be’ind the garage, and do it there.” Widowmaker paused, confused by the request, and Tracer narrowed her eyes, “You promised me you’d let me ‘ave two requests.”

“A waste. I should not be surprised.” She lowered her gun for a moment. “I will do it, cherie, but first…you must explain to me why you ask it.”

“That’s wasn’t a part of it.”

“How can it matter so much, this close to your death?”

“On account of you’ll go back on your word,” Her eyes were accusatory and judgemental.

Widowmaker was, for a moment, insulted. They may have been enemies, and she was anxious to get to the part where she finally removed the mold that had been growing over her mind, but she was still a woman of honor. “I swear to you, I will kill whereever your little heart desires. Allow me a moment of curiosity.”

Tracer looked at her, turning the bottle over in her hand, and nodded. “All right. I think, all things considered, 76’ll fare best with finding me. ‘E lives above the garage, out of the ‘ouse. Save on the cleaning bill, as well. ‘E’ll not be thrilled, mind, but ‘e’ll be the least bothered.” She took one last drink of her beer, draining it, and set it down on the coffee table. She drew her oversize grey cardigan tighter around her body, and nodded at Widowmaker, her chin high. “Ready.”

“Well then.” WIdowmaker rose, pointing her gun again. “Shall we dance?”

Tracer slowly pushed herself to her feet, and Widowmaker poked her with the end of her rifle.

“I’m not exactly savoring the moment, you know, I’m moving as fast I as bloody well can.” She shuffled toward the back door off the kitchen. “Mind that you put the bottle in the recycling after you kill me, Mercy’s very keen on all that.”

Widowmaker set the rifle against her back again. “Do you really think it is so important who finds you?”

“Yes. It’ll be bad enough, as is. Pharah’ll blame ‘erself, just as she always does. Mercy…I’ve know ‘er so long, and I remember ‘ow gutted she was about Jack and Gabriel and…everyone, really. D.Va ‘asn’t been with us but a month” she laughed. “Which I suppose means she won’t ‘ave much cause to miss me, and that’s a blessing, innit? And Winston,” her face grew sad, for seemingly the first time since she realized she was going to die, “E’ll take it so ‘ard.. “E’ll tell ‘imself ‘e should ‘ave stayed.”

“You have such an English arrogance about your own importance.”

“Do you really not understand? Nobody’d be worried if you didn’t come ‘ome tonight?” As soon as she asked it, the look on her face told Widowmaker she knew the truth, that there was no one waiting, that she was an operative and not a member of a strange and cobbled together family.

Widowmaker simply shoved her through the door into the backyard.

Tracer took a deep breath. “This is near about the lowest moment of me life, and I ‘ate every word that’s about to come from me. Don’t suppose you’d consider not?  Not for me own sake, but for Winston’s. He’s my best mate and all, and punch ‘im in the ‘eart, it will. If it’s just taking me out of the game that’s your aim, then,” she swallowed and looked back up at Widowmaker, “injure me bad enough, that I can’t be put right. Win’ll leave Overwatch so as not to remind me what I’ve lost, and we’ll ride off into the sunset, as they say.” She shook her head. “No, I ‘ate that. Just kill me.” she bit her lip and puzzled again. “Aw, Win…”

“I am prepared to take some begging from you.” She smiled with a dark delight.

“No,” she set her chin straight. “But don’t think I wouldn’t do it for Winston. I’d get down on me hands and knees and grovel, I would. But,” she continued, “Overwatch is more important than the both of us.” She continued to walk toward the garage.

“Do you feel the icy grip of death upon you, cherie? I will bathe tonight, lounging in your last moments.”

“That seems a bit gay, don’t you think? Thinking of me in the bath?”

“Your brave front is inspiring, even as you tremble.”

“I can’t ‘ardly walk, so you’ll have to mind the shakes. Kill me all you like, cherie,” she rolled her eyes, “ but you can’t make me afraid.”

Widowmaker looked into her eyes as she looked back, and saw, that it was true. She was not afraid, or broken, simply moving on with whatever came next, with her head held high.  

Tracer leaned against the back of the garage and grinned. “That’s what really ‘as you steaming, innit? You can’t make me anything other’n what I am?” She gave a huff “Better people’n you ‘ave tried, love.”

She dropped the gun to her side and moved into Tracer, who did not have a chance to react before Widowmaker’s mouth was on hers, kissing her deeply. Widowmaker felt that revulsion and confusion and desperate longing all combine in the taste of Tracer’s mouth, so different than she had imagined but somehow more magical for it, the reality of feeling something for someone after years blooming inside of her.

Tracer took a stumbling step back, and slid against the garage. “‘Ang on.” Her eyes were darting around, studying every inch of Widowmaker’s body, her face, taking notice of each movement. It captivated Widowmaker, the way Tracer moved, never sinuously like she did, but like a hummingbird, hovering and darting. Even weakened and slowed, Widowmaker could see what she wanted to do, how she wanted to move in bursts like a tiny firework.  

Widowmaker moved forward. “Do you object?”

“Yes. No. I’m not entirely sure. I–I–” She leaned heavily, almost falling.

Widowmaker kissed her again, and Tracer was there now, her lips closing around Widowmaker’s, her hand on Widowmaker’s hip, each fingertip warm and alive on her body. Widowmaker hand her hand along Tracer’s collarbone, feeling every muscle attached, ready to spring.

“You have a plane, yes?” She whispered into Tracer’s ear.

“A little Cessna, yeah.” She looked up at Widowmaker, still confused and aroused.

She kissed her again, and stroked her cheek. “Montreal. 7. Next Wednesday. Tell no one.” She stepped away. “I will be very disappointed, if you do not come.”

The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Widowmaker leapt into the night, and Tracer pulled the cardigan back over her shoulder, slowly moving back into the living room. Was that what she’d come for the entire time? To seduce her? IF so, she had a fairly terrible pick-up method, Tracer thought. Women didn’t generally like it when you attempted to murder them, but then again, maybe courtship was different in France.

She looked around at the mess in the living room, and sighed heavily. “Back to work.” 


End file.
